


Failure to Communicate

by sharkie



Series: The Broad Walls [1]
Category: Babylon (TV)
Genre: 5 Times, 5+1 Things, Angst, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Humor, Implied Sexual Content, In Medias Res, Love/Hate, Post-Canon, Romance, reference to suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-02
Updated: 2015-01-22
Packaged: 2018-03-04 09:23:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3062510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sharkie/pseuds/sharkie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The truth is a dead language. Trust is a type of necromancy. (Five attempts at saying "I love you", whether they were aware of it or not, plus one when it happened naturally.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. casus belli

_1_ ** _._ ** _**casus belli:**_ **justification for going to war**

It’s seven in the evening and they’re strolling together by the Thames, in stubborn silence, when Finn suddenly halts in his tracks. Annoyed beyond her already-astronomical level, Liz shoots him a brief glare and keeps walking; he moves to block her way, with the aggression and purposefulness of a prizefighter.

“Do you know what your problem is?” he demands. It isn’t a rhetorical question. Much.

“The incredibly annoying guy I allow to sleep with me on a regular basis?”

He doesn't bite the bait. “Everything has to be a bloody crusade with you. Sometimes, when you want something, you should take it, no excuses required.”

“Many great men have lived by that advice,” Liz concedes mockingly, “like Hitler, Stalin, every serial killer ever, and the actual crusaders. All personal heroes of yours, I’m sure.”

“ _Casus belli_.”

“Gesundheit,” she jokes.

Liz tries to move again. Finn blocks her again.

“A justification for going to war,” he continues, eyes rapidly darkening with anger, and for fuck’s sake, he’s _really_ doing this now. “That’s what the crusaders claimed to have. Of course, it was complete bullshit, regardless of what they put on the 13th century equivalent of a press release.”

“Some of the crusaders believed it themselves,” she points out.

“I’m certain that made all of those civilians feel better about dying.”

Liz matches Finn’s confrontational posture, muscle for muscle, nerve for nerve, arms folded and forehead creased. It's a body language analyst's wet dream. “Are you done playing historian-slash-revolving door, or do you have a point to make?”

He's wagging a finger at her like a goddamn old-fashioned headmaster singling a student out for a lecture. “You may claim otherwise, but you don't choose to believe in things after learning that they make sense. You believe first, then you find ways to rationalise it to yourself.”

“I fail to see the problem there.”

“Moral posturing is vanity. The results of your actions might be acceptable on the whole, but the minute there's a crack in your personal foundation, the entire thing comes crashing down. That sanctimonious sort of thinking is how you end up in this spot at 10:20-something p.m., breaking your fall from grace with the waters of the fucking Thames.”

Liz’s arms drop down to her sides, fight forgotten for the moment. She gapes at him like she’s witnessed a twist ending. “You’re worried about me.”

Finn’s jaw tightens. “I don’t want to watch you die choking on your own shit.”

“From you to me, that’s practically a marriage proposal.”

Finn rolls his eyes and _finally_ resumes walking, head down, pace brisk. Liz follows him closely and launches her counterattack in a deceptively nonchalant tone:

“The Thames matters to you in some weird way, doesn't it?”

He shoots her a wary glance, but answers, “Maybe.”

“You do spend a lot of time making sure people don’t toss themselves into it.”

“People shouldn't litter public property. That includes with bodies. Don't blow it out of proportion.”

“It's just, I didn’t think you’d give a shit about...water.” Liz almost adds that Finn is like a cat - quietly smug and mostly languid, until you make one wrong move, then the claws come out - but she knows he’s going to reply that their dislike of water is a misconception, so she doesn’t bother. Anyway, it's best not to get comparisons mixed up. “A river is constantly in motion. It goes through cycles. It encourages societal development.” She nods towards the Tower Bridge looming in the distance. “I thought you'd identify more with concrete, man-made crap. Like bridges.”

Finn takes one step back, examines her, and says, “What.”

She's knocked him off metaphorical balance. She moves in for the slightly less metaphorical kill. 

“Structured. Mostly immovable. Happy songs will be written about its downfall.”

“Wrong bridge, Liz.” She shrugs, and he sighs. “Yeah, I like bridges. I like...most buildings. Natural bodies of water, I can take or leave them. I don't see how -”

Liz persists, “I'm confused about why you're preemptively stopping me from jumping into the Thames, since you've never given any earlier indication that you care. About the Thames.” That makes him glare at her, though he doesn't protest. “Enlighten me, Finn: what's water to a bridge?”

“They need each other to be at their best. The bridge wouldn’t be a bridge without something to cross, just a very elaborate raised platform. And a river may be useful and pretty and teeming with life, but it’s unpredictable, and potentially a dangerous obstacle if you don’t have a way over.”

Liz tilts her head. “Hmm. Are we still talking about the Thames?”

“Yes, we are, but now I’m getting sick of it and I think the Thames should fuck right off.”

“A river can’t leave. If anything retracts, it has to be the bridge.”

Finn scowls and kisses her to shut her up, making a disgruntled sound from the back of his throat as he does; Liz grins against his mouth, considering this a victory. Score one for the righteous. 


	2. amor et odium

_2_ **. _amor et odium_ : ** **love and hate** _  
_

It's almost time to leave work, and they're winding down whatever daily disagreement it is they're having. Finn isn't entirely sure what this one is about, really - he's beginning to lose track of their arguments. He could keep detailed records, but that would be borderline obsessive, and also took too much time when he tried it for a week. 

He sweeps into Liz's office with a casual air, as if they haven't spent the better part of the day sniping at each other with increasingly elaborate metaphors. She doesn't acknowledge his presence, not even with eyes flickering in distaste or flipping him the bird. 

Finn waits for three and a half seconds - counts it out in his head - and says, “I need to speak to you later.”

Liz still doesn't look up. “We’re speaking right now.”

“It’s about something operationally sensitive.”

Upon hearing their code words, she slams the papers she's holding onto the desk. Her glare sends a cold spike of desire through him. “Five minutes. I’m on top. You don’t talk.”

“Ten minutes,” he counter-offers.

“Seven, and no eye contact.”

Finn fails to entirely bite back his smile. “I’ll be seeing you, then.”

“No, actually, you won’t, because _no_ eye contact.”

* * *

It turns out seven minutes isn't enough. Neither is ten. They're walking together, arguing loudly and animatedly, a common sight to their colleagues. As if expecting them, the lift doors part as they approach. Three low-ranking department members are waiting nearby; Finn shoots them a meaningful death glare, which convinces them to stay put. 

“You may have been close to winning last year, but the rules of the game have changed,” Liz crows, easing into a corner of the lift after the doors have closed. Finn mirrors her position against the opposite wall. It's an extremely confined version of a Mexican standoff. “You were playing Don't Spill the Beans. Now it's Loaded Questions.”

 _“Board_ games?” Finn ambles towards her. "Sports analogies aren't your thing, are they.”

“I don't know. I think I grasped the concept of fourth base pretty well.” He hums in passive assent, stopping a single step in front of her. Liz leans forward threateningly, even as Finn takes the offensive stance. She remains rooted to her spot, solid and unyielding. “Openness. Transparency. Read the fucking manual.”

Silly Liz. Communications isn't the game.  _This_ is the game. 

He suddenly braces one arm against the wall, by her head, effectively trapping her. She doesn't flinch. “So, if someone asked you to comment on a rumour that you and me have been shagging like a hutch full of bunnies high on nitrous oxide, you'd say...?”

She smiles at him sweetly, their faces now inches from each other's. “Fuck off.”

Finn cups her chin with his free hand and inclines his neck to kiss her. At that exact moment, the lift dings, and the doors slide open. It isn't their floor. 

Their eyes widen, and they recoil from each other like they've been electrocuted, but it's too late. They've been spotted. Of course, of all the people in Scotland Yard, it just _has_ to be Charles Inglis and Tom Oliver standing at the other side. 

Finn needs to clear his throat before greeting Inglis, “Commissioner.”

Liz cringes and purses her lips. “Charles. Tom.”

Silence. Tom is looking everywhere but at them. The expression on Inglis' face can only be described as acute horror. 

“We weren't - ” Liz begins. 

“This isn't - ” Finn adds. 

They exchange a brief, panicked glance, then lunge for the 'close' button at the same time; Inglis quickly sticks his arm out, forcing the doors back ajar. He doesn't stop staring at them. He doesn't lower his arm. When he prevents the doors from closing a second time, it becomes painfully apparent that he's awaiting an explanation. 

“It's not what it looks like,” Liz insists. 

“Right,” Inglis deadpans, “I'm sure you're just two bitter rivals checking each other's teeth in a lift.”

“Well, the mirrors in there _are_ quite dirty,” Tom offers. 

Finn runs a hand through his hair. “What the hell are you even doing on this floor?”

“Visiting Accounting,” the Commissioner answers defensively. Liz and Finn exchange another glance, because neither of them suggested that to Inglis, and neither of them seem to grasp that he's capable of making decisions on his own. “At the end of every day, I take time to stop by each of the departments. It's a walkabout.”

“That's 'about' as in  _around_ a place, not up and down,” Liz protests. 

“I don't see any need to walk the perimeter of the building,” Inglis snaps. 

The overworked lift doors attempt to close again. This time, Finn presses the 'open' button and awkwardly gestures for Inglis and Tom to enter. Liz presses herself against the nearest wall like she's trying to meld with it. 

Inglis shakes his head vehemently. "Oh, no. I'm taking the next one,” he says. “Forever.”

“Wait! Quick question,” Tom quips, face all dewy and innocent as usual. 

Finn actually growls at him, and Inglis rubs his temples with both thumbs. “Jesus Christ, Tom,” the Commissioner mutters. 

“Are you in a relationship?”

“Fuck off,” Liz and Finn answer simultaneously, though Liz at least has the decency to stammer out a halfhearted apology before the doors slide shut. 

* * *

Finn has always had feelings for Liz.

It was like something straight out of a movie: that moment he watched her beaming over the sound of her own heartbeat; her earnest face crystal clear in 1080p resolution; the forced informality of her voice as she asked him, the audience, everyone, “Can you hear that?” He heard, and he  _knew_.

Hate at first sight. The kind of loathing poets wrote about. A story for the ages, to be introduced to curious hypothetical future grandchildren as “the beginning of my feud with an American twat from Instagram." 

Of course, feelings are complicated - they mature, fuck each other, beget more than they’d started with. (And the feelings do, too!) Over time, there was also irritation, disgust, incredulity, and the sort of vague pity usually reserved for telemarketers or roadkill or journalists reporting on a storm from the middle of said storm. There was sexual tension you could cut with a cheese knife. There was begrudging respect, morbid fascination, and eventually all-out lust.

Then there was...whatever the hell this is. 

Finn is staying overnight. That doesn't mean anything, because early in their encounters they discovered that they could go at it multiple times, so this is a matter of convenience. They're facing each other, legs tangled, his nose still nudging against Liz's collarbone from when he'd collapsed on top of her. That also doesn't mean anything, because his arm is pinned beneath her head and if he tries to budge she might finally punch him.

Liz lets out a sigh in her sleep, deep and content. Inexplicably, he gets goosebumps; he tells himself that the chill is setting in, though that makes no sense, since he's under the covers, being burrowed into by a very warm body. His next guess is that he must be coming down with something, which would explain the lump forming in his throat, plus why he's finding it difficult to breathe. 

He shifts slightly, one ear brushing across her bare skin, and he realises that her heartbeat is quiet now. It's louder than a whisper, less insistent than a clock ticking; it’s a gentle, syncopated _thump_ -thump instead of an amplified pounding being broadcast for a world that hears but doesn’t often care to listen.

It’s dark. It’s cold where they're not touching. Finn's resolve trembles. There’s a nagging need at the back of his mind to speak, to remind himself that he’s capable of forming words. 

“Liz.” Her name drops like a pin heavy against silence.

“Mmm.”

“Your chest is in my face.”

Despite being more than half asleep, she’s able to mumble, “Didn’t bother you much a couple of hours ago.”

She doesn’t move over. In fact, she scoots closer; and at odds with Finn’s usual judgment, he pulls her in. When she’s fully slumbering once again, and his eyelids are starting to droop, he adjusts their position so that their heads are level, and gently presses his fingertips against where her heart is. _Thump_ -thump. _Thump_ -thump.

_Can you hear that?_

Not anymore, but he can feel it, as surely as he can feel Liz’s breath on his lips, the tips of her hair tickling his knuckles as he drags his hand lower to rest on her waist. The goosebumps resurface. 

Then again, feelings come and go. This - whatever it is - does not.


	3. in retentis

_3 **.** **in retentis:**_ **among things held back**

It happens accidentally one afternoon. Liz is fuming, marching her regular warpath to Finn’s office.

Maybe it’s the lighting, or the temperature, or some unholy combination of variables. Maybe she lacks sleep. Maybe she’s gotten mercury poisoning from her tap water. It’s not like he’s doing anything out of the ordinary - legs outstretched, ankles propped up against the surface of his desk as he stares at his monitor, the way she hates; smacking on gum loudly, the way she hates; it’s a scene that’s so undeniably, unbearably  _Finn_ , the person she -

Time seems to slow to a crawl. She could very well be staring at one of those junctures that define a life. Her mind goes briefly, mercifully blank.

“Finn,” she says. His name comes out like a breath.  

The upwards flicker of his eyes startles her. “Yes?” he prompts, mostly disinterested. 

Liz's mouth works before her judgment does. 

“I love you- ” Finn freezes mid-chew. Reality ensues, as abruptly as a record scratch or plunging through ice; Liz shakes her head at herself, and soldiers on, “...tube. And Tumblr. And Pinterest. And StumbleUpon, and WordPress, and...MySpace.” She’s just listing random websites, fuck. _MySpace_? She must really be out of it. Though now she remembers why she's here in the first place. “You’re Deputy of Communications, but do you even know what half of those are?”

“Websites. Primarily for porn, I assume. Not very relevant to the state of policing, are they?” He’s looking back down, makes a ‘move along’ motion towards the door.

Any lingering affection evaporates like water molecules on skin. “I don’t use the Internet for porn,” Liz replies testily. “If I want to get off fast, all I need to do is drop a bad habit and wait for you to bend over to pick it up.”

They proceed to have an argument about the Met’s presence on social media. She mentions the Reykjavik Police’s popular Instagram account; he retorts with the NYPD’s grossly insensitive ‘blue lives matter’ hashtag on Twitter.

As Liz storms out of his office, Finn calls after her, “Why don't you marry YouTube since you love it so much?”

“Maybe I already have, and you're my side whore!”

“Fuck off!”

“Fuck you!”

* * *

The good thing is, Liz tends to focus on one problem at a time. The bad thing is, Liz tends to focus on one problem at a time. So she survives the workday without an emotional hitch, but as soon as she gets home, Finn preoccupies her thoughts, and she's really fucking annoyed about that. 

She goes into the bathroom and splashes water on her face, stares bleary-eyed at her reflection as the droplets streak down her cheeks. She may be an advocate for a new culture based on transparency and trust, but she’s a cautious person; she never once came close to saying _that_ to Granger, not even under the influence of drugs and alcohol and abject loneliness.

Finn has goaded Liz into lying, backstabbing, and indulging in every kind of behaviour she’s tried to be against. Their conflict nearly made either a martyr or a monster out of her - but she’s stared the devil down, and in the end it wasn't Finn. It was her own weakness. He provided a face and a voice for her bitterly selfish side, which made it easier to slay - or, if not slay, at least slap on the wrist and give a stern talking-to. 

These past few months, their dynamic has developed from antagonistic to cute in a somewhat horrifying way, similar in tone to Ewoks repurposing the detached heads of Stormtroopers as drums, or how praying mantises dance around each other right before the female engages in a spot of sexual cannibalism.

...And now she’s thinking about Finn in relation to homicidal teddy bears and bugs fucking. Well, that’s more like it.

* * *

It's shaping up to be a sleepless night. Liz sits over the covers, a glass of white wine in one hand. With the other, she reaches for her mobile to call Finn, though she's aware that's like trying to cure a headache by repeatedly bashing her brain against a hard surface. His number is saved to her contacts, of course, but off the clock she dials it manually; that's precious time she could use to return to her senses and back down. Not that she ever does. 

Finn answers midway into the third ring, which, she notes, takes exactly three and a half seconds - not too eager, not too aloof. Calculated. _Deliberate_. She figures she'll tell him so by way of greeting, and he'll adjust his strategy accordingly. Except her mouth has gone dry for some reason. 

“Liz?”

In the lull of silence, it dawns on her that there's nothing stopping her from revisiting whatever she was about to say earlier. Maybe it's better to do it this way, without his fucking face in view, without anywhere for either of them to escape to. She could. Now. Right _now_. 

Instead, she says, “My refrigerator's running.”

Finn lets out an irritated huff. “Of course it is - I'm the one who fixed it. Why are you calling?”

She takes a sip of the wine before replying airily, “For phone sex, I guess.”

“Considering the sort of people we have to ring throughout the day, there's a very good chance we'll get STD's from this.”

“Hearing AIDS,” Liz suggests.

“No need to be offensive.” There's a rustling noise on the other end. It's nice to picture something dirty. More likely, she's on loudspeaker, and Finn is sliding a finger back and forth over the mouthpiece as he continues to stalk her or their coworkers on the Internet, or whatever it is he does in his free time. He asks, in a cool voice, “So, what are you wearing?”

A hoodie, sweatpants, and a frown. “Lipstick, pearls, and stockings. Nothing else.”

“And you just walk around your flat like that.”

Liz smiles a bit, struggles to keep any indication of her growing amusement out of her response. “The guy across the street can't afford cable this month. I'm trading him entertainment for little baggies of crystal meth I'm gonna hand out to kids at Halloween.”

“Has it ever occurred to him that he could sell the meth to pay for cable?”

“He's on meth, Finn. Logical thinking isn't his strong suit right now.”

She hears an indistinct, throaty sound from his end, which she interprets as a stifled laugh. “Putting this back on track, what would we be doing if I was there?”

“Each other. Imagine that.”

“I don't think I can, actually. Elaborate for me.”

“That's why I'm more effective than you: I'm the creative type.”

“You're Director of Communications, Liz. Use your words.”

“And you're my subordinate, so shut up and listen.” She squeezes her eyes closed in concentration as she tries to set the scene: “Five minutes. Lights off, clothes on, you don't talk.”

“With those stipulations, you may as well shag a blow-up sex doll.”

“Sorry, is that not what you are?”

“Fuck you,” Finn says, without much venom, then hangs up. 

Liz laughs to herself for a few seconds before putting her phone aside, draining the wine, and burying her head into her pillow. As predicted, sleep does not come. 

* * *

Her bedroom is illuminated solely by her laptop screen. The blank word document in front of her is daunting, but not insurmountable. Absently, Liz traces her mouth with her index finger and wonders how many times has Finn kissed her. He's worse for her than Granger's hits of cocaine, and twice as addictive, and thrice as inspiring,  _and fucking hell she'd better not write that_. 

She tricks herself. She's starting to lower the laptop screen in defeat when her hands land on the keyboard with the authority of boots disembarking onto a battlefield, and she types in rapid, angry jabs, “ _Dear F-”_ then stops, because she can't finish that line without retching. She adds, “ _ucker,”_  but, no, that isn't a great improvement. 

Liz holds down the backspace button, feels a short-lived sense of catharsis as the letters disappear.  _You're Director of Communications. Use your words._ While she's adept at stating the indisputable, ugly truth point-blank and making it seem progressive in the process, uncertain realities are more difficult. She gets epiphanies daily, convinces herself that they're material, then watches as they fall apart. Minds change. Circumstances evolve. The world is a war between facts and fleetingness; words are often relics of the moment, and that's where the bulk of miscommunication stems from. You can't count on declarations or even beliefs to stay true - you can only hope that your actions reflect your intent - 

There it is. That's how to begin. “ _If there’s anything I've learned from you, it’s that honesty isn’t necessarily the same as telling the truth.”_

Liz pours her heart out. Then she pours it back in; almost all of it cooperates, but some is irreversibly spilled in the transition. Her fingers dance across the keyboard like a manic pianist's. She has more ideas about them than she did for her initial Metwork pitch, and far less optimism.  _  
_

It's an hour and a half later when she finally turns off her laptop and settles onto the bed. It's two hours later when she quits editing the document on her phone; she drifts off hugging herself, with backlight-flare still flashing gently behind her eyelids. Once she shows this to Finn tomorrow, she'll win either way  - he might react badly, and she can move on. Or he might react...not-badly, and they'll take it from there. 

* * *

The next morning, Liz reopens the word document for proofreading. She makes it halfway through, highlights the whole thing, and hits backspace. 


	4. par delictum

_4 **.**_ _**par delictum** : _**equal fault**

It's noon, which signals the escalation of their daily disagreement. Today, Inglis and Sharon Franklin bear unfortunate witnesses. 

They're in the Commissioner's office, circling each other like sharks. Liz is the first to charge towards the centre of the room; Finn surges forward to meet her there. 

“Did you not pay attention during kindergarten?” she snaps. They're standing toe-to-toe now, Liz craning her head upwards slightly. “Or did you stop listening right after 'do unto others'? Sharing is good, honesty is the best policy -”

“ _Policy_ is the best policy,” Finn retorts.

“You must have been that kid who told the others that Santa Claus isn’t real.”

“Which is _the truth!”_

Inglis groans. “I’m considering firing both of you and replacing the whole PR department with a room full of monkeys on typewriters.”

Sharon contributes, “The screeching would be softer, and they’d get more done.”

The discussion concludes as it usually does: Liz delivers a heroic monologue about sacrifice, then emotionally considers leaving for good; Finn claims that's an emptier threat than a North Korean nuclear attack. 

“You’re getting pent-up, Finn,” she says, artfully dodging his accusation. “Have you not blown a big load of classified information into the toilet of mainstream media today? Does the private sector’s jumbo-sized vibrating dildo not come with an extension cord?”

“Your transparency bollocks is like your work at Instagram...I don’t have an insult for that. I just wanted to remind you that you used to work for Instagram.”

“Right, that's it.” Inglis stands and points at the door. The minute dildos come into play, they've officially crossed from crass-but-reasonable debate to infantile mudslinging. “Both of you: out. Now.”

They continue glaring at each other as they move. Finn holds the door open for Liz and gestures for her to go ahead, even as his scowl is deepening by the second; Liz intentionally brushes past him, glowering. 

In their wake, Sharon glances at Inglis. They share a rare moment of silent consensus. “Maybe monkeys would fuck less, too,” she mutters. 

* * *

Safely inside Liz's office, the argument re-commences. Finn begins as Liz closes the glass door behind them: “You enjoy giving ultimatums, don’t you? You’re a sugar-coated lobbyist, prancing around with your plastic smile and designer PR tat as you light the public sector on fire. You’re like a fucking Monsanto Barbie.”

Liz can't suppress an angry laugh. “And that would make you a civil servant Ken - my unlikable, perpetually static, hanger-on boytoy with limited clothing and career options. You think you're an irreplaceable cog in a machine, but you could drop off the face of the earth for two whole fucking years or more, and nobody would care.”

“I’m not ‘your’ anything,” Finn spits.

“No, you’re not,” Liz affirms, with biting acidity. “I’m glad we can agree on something.”

It's taken an uncomfortably personal turn, but neither of them want to be the one to back down. He continues, “What does this place mean to you, that you're so willing to pull up your anchor and set sail when you don't get your way? Does anyone or anything matter besides you, or are we mere meaty blocks in building the Tower of Babel that is Liz Garvey's massive fucking ego?”

She's sure she had a clever response for that, but she focuses on, “'We'?”

“They,” Finn corrects himself, without missing a beat. “Inglis, Sharon, Mia, everyone else you speak to every day. You don't really connect with people. You just suck them dry and leave them for the sweepers.”

She scoffs. “You're one to complain about me and sucking dry.”

“Liz,” he warns. When she doesn't immediately reply, he shoots her what's meant to be a final glare and starts to exit. 

It's a bad idea, she knows, but she leans against her desk and declares, “It was never only about me. First off: I came here because of Richard - ”

“Jesus  _Christ_.” Finn spins around again, takes several steps back towards her, examines her with a mixture of contempt and an emotion she can't quite place. “Fine. If you want to open that can of worms again, I'm obligated to hold you down and force-feed it- ”

“I came here because of Richard,” Liz repeats, louder, “but I _stayed_ after he died, because believe it or not, this place means more to me than cash and a spot on my Facebook timeline. My interpersonal relationships aside - which you have no right to question, by the way - I'm here for a reason. And I would be willing to have this discussion with anyone but _you.”_

"Would you really? Or do you only embrace openness when it's about something you want to hear?”

Liz goes to sit at her desk, but Finn is on her heels. They end up circling around again. She retaliates, “Do you only think consistency matters when it presents an opportunity for you to paint me as a fickle fucking hypocrite?”

He ignores her question. “So, hypothetically, who would you have sacrificed to keep Richard alive? Mia? A room full of complete strangers? Tom? A school bus at max capacity? Me?” Liz's face falters for a fraction of a second; it's enough for Finn to notice. “Yeah,” he says, laughing bitterly, “Definitely me. I'm just the living dildo you use to get yourself off while thinking of a ghost's cock - ”

“We’ve been over this before!” she practically shouts. “You said you believed me! I never fucked him, I never - ”

“No, but you wish you had, don’t you?” She meets his challenging stare with her own of utter disgust. His voice is trembling as it rises, hands shaking as he gestures wildly. “I am not your latest pet project, Liz. I am not something for you to stick on your résumé as another salvaged lost cause. And I will never be a replacement for the man you really wanted.”

“I didn’t come here because I wanted a _man_ \- I wanted to make a difference. You’ve made it impossible for me to have either. If you disagree so much with the way I handle things, why do you get so pissy whenever I say I might leave?” Now it's Finn's turn to look angrily, quietly stricken, and the sight is inexplicably infuriating. “I see how it is. I'm your chew toy, your fucking fuckable stress ball. You think screwing me over is the closest you can get to picking on someone your own size.”

“I don't say these things just to tear you down.”

“So, what, it's to build me up? Meat tower and all?”

Finn's expression is more stunned than resentful. “You really think I want to hurt you, don't you? I'm not some sadist who gets his rocks off by watching you crash and burn.”

“Really? I couldn't have guessed, since every time I turn to look, you're holding a slingshot and matches.”

Silence, bordering on painful. He scuffs the floor with a foot as he admits, “I...don't entirely hate you, Liz.”

“That’s funny,” she says flatly, using the pause to finally sink onto her chair and let out a pained exhale, “you’re funny.”

Finn throws his hands up in frustration. “You go on and on about honesty, but what’s the point of telling the truth if you don’t believe me?”

Liz studies him with cold, hollow eyes. “The boy who cried wolf, Finn. It’s a tragic story.”

“But I’m not repeating a lie that came true, I’m saying that - that -” He stops. “You know what? Fuck this.”

He slams the door on the way out. Liz follows him, throws the door open, and slams it again. Through the glass walls, she can clearly see him storming away - total transparency, she realises dimly. Doesn't change the fact there's still a fucking wall. There's only one person she knows who would appreciate the analogy as much as she does, and that's Finn, and that's  _fucked_.

* * *

At 3:58 p.m., Mia pokes her head into Liz's office to announce, “Finn went home early. I don't know what he has, but he did look a bit poorly.”

“What? Why didn't he tell me himself?”

“He said he wouldn't want you to 'catch caring'.”

“For fuck's sake,” Liz grumbles, and returns her attention to her computer screen without giving it further thought. 

Mia doesn't leave. “Maybe you should go after him,” she suggests. 

Liz flashes her a wry smile. “Yeah? And leave the department in your capable hands?”

“It's weird, is all I'm saying. The last time Finn got sick, Richard nearly had to physically extract him from the building, and he kept sending emails as soon as he set foot outside. This time, I haven't heard a peep from him since he left.” Liz's eyes widen. Mia holds her hands up in an attempt at a calming gesture. “I'm not trying to worry you - ”

“I'm not worried,” Liz insists quickly, “why would I be worried? Nobody should be worried. Finn's probably sulking in a cave full of vampire bats, or jerking off to pictures of crime scenes.”

“All right,” Mia says uncertainly. “If you change your mind, just text me and go.”

Liz sighs and nods, fully believing that won't be the case. Once Mia has left, however, she can't concentrate. The words she's typing seem to run together; the uneasy feeling at the back of her mind grows and grows until it squeezes everything else out. Eventually, she gives in, picks up her phone, and calls Finn. He doesn't answer, so she texts him instead. 

4:01 p.m.  _Heard you're not feeling well, but can we talk?_

No reply.

4:16 p.m. _Call me. Or text back. Or rattle a skull full of bones at the sky. However it is your kind communicates._ For good measure, she throws in an angry poop emoji. 

No reply.

4:25 p.m. _I know you're seeing these._ _We made a deal not to let the fights in our personal lives affect the fights in our work lives. Yeah, I fucked up. You did, too. Call me so we can talk about it._

No reply. 

4:31 p.m. _Finn_ , _WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU?_

Thirty seconds later, there's finally a reply, in the form of a single Google Maps screenshot. Liz's phone slips from her fingers and clatters onto her desk; she snatches it back up as she swiftly gathers her things, cursing under her breath the whole time, heart pounding hard enough to reverberate in her head.

 _Can you hear that_? 

* * *

_Can you hear that?_

Finn is standing by the Thames, gnawing on his gum like a captured wild horse chewing at a bit. He's watching Liz's TED Talk for the umpteenth time: he knows it by heart, down to every twitch of her muscles, every camera angle, every nuance of her voice. He knows the words, too, but they never truly register. He's sure they were constructed from a combination of talking points and excited improvisation - he's sure that she  _meant_ them - but it never sounds like she believes it.

While the video buffers, he happens to glance up, and he sees her. His heart does what feels like a bungee jump: a free-fall drop, then the shock of rebound. 

The Liz approaching Finn is worlds away from the version of her onscreen. Liz of corporate past is the bright centerpiece of the stage, polished and eager, each movement measured for maximum approval. The present Liz materializes before him like an avenging angel, a scowl on her face and hair in slight disarray, her paces wide and almost clumsy. He likes this one much better.

Upon spotting him, she rushes forward - impressive, considering she's still wearing her work heels - and demands, “What the hell? Are you trying to taunt me?”

Finn makes the connection too strongly, too late. “It's the fucking  _Thames_ , Liz. It's 346 km long and 12,935 square km wide. I literally couldn't avoid it. If I wanted to taunt you about Richard, I'd stick my cock into a series of rusty mousetraps and die of a symbolic venereal disease, not wait for you by a river.”

“And the half-hour of not replying, followed by a screenshot of your location, without context?”

“What context was necessary besides my...co-worker being pissed off at me beyond reason, and me wanting to get away?”

“A 'fuck you, Liz' would have sufficed.”

“I was being curt.”

“You were being an asshole. Still are!” She takes a steadying breath. “Okay, what's going on?”

"Many things, everywhere,” Finn replies flippantly, "do you want local news, or the current situation in Gaza?”

“I know the local news. That's my job, and I'm really good at my job.” Liz slowly takes a few steps closer; Finn observes her cautiously. “This is unusual behaviour, even for you. Be honest with me for once in our fucking lives.”

“All right, so I lie routinely. That doesn't mean I'm not being honest with you.”

For some reason, that gives her pause. “I know, but this isn't about getting you to stop lying, it's about you beginning to tell the truth. Plainly. Without expecting anything in return.”

“I'll pass.”

“It's easy if you try, Finn.”

“Liz, you're a lemur attempting to teach a fish how to climb a tree.”

“You're being ridiculous.”

“And you're being narrow-minded in 360 degrees with surround sound. That's still being narrow-minded. It's not a fucking _choice_. Not everyone finds it effortless to be truthful, especially if they aren't sure of the truth themselves. I know I'm not the only one who's like this. Tell me, what should I do - put out a press statement? Hop in a plane and fucking write it out for you in the sky? What if I'm _wrong_?”

Liz's mouth quirks in amusement. “It wouldn't be the first time.”

“But once it's out there, you can't take it back.” Finn sighs in exasperation, then adds, wagging a finger at her like he did weeks earlier, “One thing I did learn from you: trust is all we have. Even if it's only a little. But when it's double or nothing, I'd rather go with nothing. So, yeah,” he concludes, sharply, “maybe I need to open up more - maybe I do need to rip my beating heart out to prove to you that it exists. Or maybe, for us emotional simpletons, this brave new candid world isn’t as Utopian as you think.”

She appears to be dumbfounded. She asks, incredulous, “Finn...do you think you don't matter to me?”

The anger on his face mostly melts away. They exchange a long, helpless look. He opens his mouth like he’s going to say something else, then abruptly turns to leave.

Liz grabs his arm. In the process, she glimpses her TED Talk open on his phone, which he quickly shoves into his pocket. Too late - her expression softens. “Hey.”

Finn catches her eye, starts, and says, “Shut up.”

“I haven't said anything yet. Unless you’re telepathic now, which I doubt, because if you were, we could have avoided this whole thing. Do you _want_ to matter to me?” He frowns at her, but he doesn't object; from him, that may as well be concession. Liz's shoulders sag, and she holds his gaze with a mixture of affection and annoyance. “You’re adorable. You’re like a terrified woodland creature frozen in the middle of the road, or a claymation robot getting advice from a scientist on asking a printer out for a date.”

Finn blanches. “Maybe I can jump into the Thames after all -”

“I could never leave you,” Liz reassures him, squeezing his arm, so certain and sincere that it's vaguely upsetting. “Because you'd singlehandedly burn our office to the fucking ground just to get rid of a rat infestation, then try to spin against the rats.”

Finn stares at the floor like it's personally offended him. “And I could never let you leave,” he admits. “You might dress the entire LAPD as the Village People if you thought it'd test well with the 18 to 25 year old demographic.”

Liz purses her lips thoughtfully. “40 to 50, actually. Those are very different age groups. This is why you need me.”

"Yes,” he says, careful to keep his tone neutral, “I suppose so.”

He grabs her by the waist; she presses her body flush against his. Their foreheads touch as they lean in to kiss.

Without warning, Liz pulls back and studies Finn with narrowed eyes.

“What?” he snaps, voice on the edge of desperation, his grip on her tightening. He hasn't been this scared since the night of the riot.

“Spit out your gum.”


	5. acta non verba

_5 **.**    **acta non verba:**_    **deeds, not words**

Calling it a 'bad day' would be a gross understatement. Liz barely managed to hold it together towards the end; Finn can tell that she wants to fall apart as soon as she staggers through the door to her flat. But she can't collapse to the floor, because he's behind her - he'd catch her, then complain about her motor skills.

They haven't spoken since they left work together, so it's a bit of a shock when she whirls around and practically attacks his mouth with hers. 

“Go on,” she instructs him hurriedly upon breaking the kiss, nearly ripping the buttons off her blouse in her haste to remove it. She doesn't look at him, so she can't see that he's frowning. “You can get your obligatory gloating done while you fuck me.”

Finn catches her hands in his, locks gazes with her meaningfully, and declares, “This is terrible foreplay.”

Liz scoffs. “To go with our terrible sex.”

“Fuck you.”

“Yeah, there'll be an attempt.”

Despite himself, Finn smiles at that, just a little. Then - much to their mutual surprise - she lowers her head and starts crying. He awkwardly places a hand on her shoulder. She recoils. They’re both stung by the unexpected movement.

“Don’t,” Liz says, her voice steadier now, but she's swiping at the tears darting down her cheeks. “Don’t try to be nice to me. It’ll only make it worse.”

“I was going to undo the rest of your blouse,” he lies. 

She's laughing as she suddenly pulls him into an unprecedented tight hug. He makes a surprised sound, stands frozen on the spot, but doesn't pull away. A few seconds later, he leans into it, dares to nose through her hair; she responds by clinging onto him tighter. Once Finn works up the nerve to wrap his arms around her, she's shaking, knees threatening to buckle. 

Somehow, they make it to her bedroom. Instead of getting undressed, they sit at the edge of the mattress and kiss for a long time - no “tongues battling for dominance”, no great clash of wills, no over-thinking or under-feeling. Eventually, Liz drifts off pressed against him, slumped but still upright. He lays her down, folds the covers so that they're on top of her. Following a moment of hesitation, he joins her beneath them. It's stiflingly warm and cramped and  _weird._ But she fumbles for his hand, and clasps it firmly upon finding it, and he discovers that it's not so difficult to fall asleep this way, after all. 

A thought hits Finn in the middle of the night, during a lapse of wakefulness. Like their position at present, it's highly uncomfortable. It's also  _true_.   

* * *

In the morning, Finn goes to work hours earlier than Liz and, indeed, most other people. She's barely made it onto the department floor when they’re in each other’s faces and at each other’s throats. He compares her short-term strategy to setting a pile of supermarket tabloids on fire and inhaling the fumes. She calls him a fascist tortoise hiding from Y2K in a bunker.

“You’re okay, though?” he asks in a low voice after they’re finished, before either of them can march off.

Liz leans forward, eyes narrowed threateningly. “I don’t know if I am, Doc Brown. Why don’t you AOL my symptoms, or consult your Palm Pilot, or send a telegram to your local _fucking_ sage?”

“You’re okay,” he repeats, satisfied. She brushes her lips to his cheek, then shoves past him in a huff.

* * *

At midday, Liz is alone in her office, handling damage control for yesterday. Finn knocks on the side of the ajar door - which he hasn't done since that time he lied about having a wife - and waits for her to look up. 

She doesn't. “I have to tell you something,” he says. 

Liz makes a vague, hassled gesture. “I’m kind of busy. Is it important?” He can't summon the words to explain. She adds, pointedly, “Did many Bothans die to bring us this information?”

“Yes.” Finn shakes his head. “Maybe. I mean, the important part, not the Bothans. It's not bad news. Exactly. Depending on how you view it.” He bites his lower lip, continues, “It's possible it's not even news to you, although that's - unlikely, all things considered.”

She reclines in her chair and watches him expectantly. “Well, go ahead.”

He takes a deep breath. “Liz, I’m not good at saying stuff like this…” he begins, then trails off, seeing the concerned expression spreading on her face. This all seems like a bad, bad idea. Everything about them does. At the moment, he would un-fuck her if he could. “...So I won’t. Bye.”

Finn walks - _runs_ , really - away, with her stare burning into the back of his head. But this isn't the end. He's nothing if not persistent. The only thing he's ever really failed at is destroying her. 

* * *

He avoids Liz after that, hiding in his office, keeping his head down, distracting himself with work...until hours later, he glimpses her walking past. On impulse, he dashes out to meet her, catches up with her outside an empty meeting room - as doubt sets in, he tells himself that he has to do it now, before he changes his mind. Now. Right  _now_. 

“Liz, can I talk to you?” In this newfound burst of eagerness, Finn opens the door to the meeting room without waiting for her reply; he taps his foot impatiently when she doesn't enter. “Well?”

She examines him critically. “Depends. Are you actually going to _say_ anything this time?”

“Uh.”

“If this is about something operationally sensitive - ”

“What? No! Just...in here.” Finn holds the door open wider, using his free hand to wave Liz inside in an almost frantic fashion. She complies, with a spectacularly long eye-roll. 

Once the door is shut behind them, he grabs her by the wrist and blurts, “Listen, I don’t care for many things in this world…”

Finn pauses to collect his thoughts. Except now that it's stopped, his mouth won't start again. 

“But?” Liz prompts. 

“There’s no fucking ‘but’,” he insists, a little too quickly, “I was stating a fact.”

“Out of nowhere, after dragging me away to speak in private about something supposedly important.”

Finn releases her wrist and crosses his arms, scowling. “I just want to make sure you know what you’re dealing with.”

Liz fixes him with a look that's both questioning and understanding at the same time. Neither aspect is particularly comforting. “Believe me, I do,” she says, carefully, “Do _you_ know what you’re dealing with?”

He stiffens, and exits the meeting room calling, “Get back to work!” over his shoulder. His productivity increases drastically for the rest of the day. His already-foul mood nosedives, crashes through the earth's crust, and lands  _in Hell_. 

* * *

At 6:40 p.m., Liz enters his office without knocking. She looks more relaxed than she did in the morning, her smile easy and relieved. If she was disturbed by his earlier behaviour, she certainly isn't letting it show.

“We did good today,” she proclaims. “Everyone. Even you!”

Finn lets out an unenthused 'uh-huh'.

She goes over followup plans for tomorrow, as brisk and efficient as always - and he listens, making the occasional indignant objection, of course, because personal angst isn't reason enough to let her run amok. 

“I'll see you at my place later?” Liz concludes, apparently none the wiser to his ordeal. 

“Sure,” Finn agrees, as casually as he can. He sticks his pen into the corner of his mouth, with the implicit message: that's all, move along. She gives him a short nod and starts to leave. 

Halfway out of the door, Liz sighs, abruptly turns heel, and struts towards him.

“One more thing - ” she says, planting her hands on his desk, like she's bracing for impact. “I love you, too.”

Finn drops his pen. Stupid Liz and her stupid feelings. She reads him as if he’s a book - and she’s not like just any idiot rushing to the end of the story; no, she has to go over him with the fine-tooth-comb precision of an English student grasping at straws, positing ideas so ludicrous with such conviction that even he begins to make sense to himself.

He wants to yell at her, get her fired, shove her on a flight to the States and not have to deal with her anymore. He wants to echo her words at her, kiss her, kiss her again, kiss her until the city is aflame and the police have dissolved into lawlessness and returned once more.

Instead, all he manages is, “I never said that.”

“You don’t have to.” Her smile is too wide. Her eyes are too bright. Oh no. Oh, _no_. “Although I appreciate your multiple attempts to adhere to my policy of transparency - you never, ever have to.”

“Fuck off,” he snaps, then winces.

“Fuck you,” she fires back, on reflex.

Silence.

“I love you,” Liz repeats - slowly, like she’s tasting the words, weighing them against her tongue.

He gulps. “I know.” Finn retrieves his pen, fumbles, and drops it again, this time on the floor. “Go away.”

Her smile is ridiculously dopey. He wants to kiss it off her fucking face. She’s still smiling, even while she flips him off and heads for the door.


	6. prima facie

_6 **.**    **prima facie:**_    **at first sight**

It's seven weeks in and they're at the clinic. There's been a non-fatal shooting in the CBD, and the manhunt is underway. Finn constantly glances at his mobile for updates, even as a technician smears ultrasound gel over Liz's bare stomach. He at least has the basic decency to occasionally look up and smile politely. Each time he does, Liz matches it with her own. 

When the technician has to leave the room for a bit, the corners of Liz's lips curve downwards in distaste. She snatches Finn's wrist and hisses, “Are you seriously checking your fucking phone right now?”

“Someone has to keep track of the situation,” he replies defensively, “since you're otherwise occupied.”

“Yeah, my fucking uterus is 'otherwise occupied'. Good thing I'm already nauseated, because you _sicken_ - ”

The technician is returning; Liz stops talking and releases his wrist as they plaster their fake smiles back on in unconscious synchronization. She flips him off beneath the examination table. He reciprocates the gesture. 

* * *

_Click. Click_. The image is magnified further. There it is - their child. This is the third occasion where they were able to cooperate long enough to create anything worthwhile, and this one probably won't cause hack journalists to have collective meltdowns and write slanderous articles. Probably. Liz realises it would be appropriate to say something profound.

“Oh, look at that tail,” she murmurs absently, “that's cool.”

“No thoughts on the hands and feet?” Finn asks, shooting her a dubious glance. 

“It's going to come out with those intact.” She pauses. “I hope.”

There's a continuous fast flicker on the screen. Apparently, the baby's heart rate is healthy. The technician places a doppler probe on Liz's stomach, moves it slowly; soon, there's a distinct thump- _thump-_ thump emitted from the device. It's weird. And reassuring. 

“Can you hear that?” Liz breathes, genuinely awed. She turns her head towards Finn, expecting him to retort with a snarky comment along the lines of  _of course I can, that's what the fucking machine is for_. 

Instead, Finn seems to have forgotten how to breathe. He's speechless, mouth parting slightly, yet no words coming out. They've been staring at the screen for several minutes, but judging by the expression on his face, it's only hitting him now. Eventually, his gaze drags towards her face - lingers for a second - then returns to the grainy image. 

“I love you,” he whispers. 

Maybe it's meant for her, or the baby, or both of them. "I know," she responds softly, unsure if he hears.

She squeezes his hand a few times, keeps holding it as they continue watching the rapid pulsations, heartbeat ongoing in the background. At one point, he unexpectedly leans over and kisses her on the cheek, both of them still fixated on the screen as he does. 

“That's not the actual heartbeat we're hearing, you know,” Finn says, once he's recovered. 

Liz groans and drops his hand. “Please don't ruin this moment.”

“What moment?" He discreetly swipes at his eyes before checking his phone again. “By the way, the gunman claims he has explosives.”

“Right, it's gone.”

* * *

Twenty minutes later, the gunman turns out not to have explosives, just bundled sticks of dynamite with an alarm clock tied to them. 

They've hardly stepped out of the doctor's office when Finn starts briefing Liz on what she's missed. She repeatedly interjects to complain about his phrasing, or to contest attempted points. During a natural lull in their progressively heated conversation, he retrieves something from his coat pocket; she assumes it's more gum, which is why it's a mild surprise that he grabs one of her hands and slips a ring onto her finger. 

Her face is as impassive as possible as she questions, “Aren't you going to ask me properly?”

“Liz...” Finn takes a deep breath. “I don't want to watch you die choking on your own shit.”

She cracks a small smile. “Really.”

“I'm not getting on the floor.”

“I'll have you on your knees later,” Liz replies, studying the ring with suppressed emotion. “Wrong hand, FYI.”

He shakes his head and begins to walk off. She falls into step beside him and gleefully points out, “You realise you'll have to divorce your fictional wife.”

“You'll have to divorce YouTube,” he counters. 

Liz beams at him. “I don't care. TED Talks are where it's at now.”

Finn rolls his eyes. “Figures.”

She wordlessly offers him her hand, and he complies with minimal trepidation. They're still holding hands even as they exit, arguing: palms pressed together gently, fingertips barely brushing - the type of contact that's more telling in its lightness, like a kiss, or a dialogue.  


End file.
